Graven: An Epic Struggle

Title Page

GRAVEN

An Epic Struggle

By

Dale Osborne and Cavin Wright

Publisher Information

Graven published in 2012 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Copyright © Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright 2012

The right of Cavin Wright and Dale Osborne to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chapter One

I shall never forget that winter. But not only for the harshness of it - and it was incredibly harsh. The fields carried a ghostly white sheen and the hedgerows were crested with intricate patterns of frost. Icicles hung from the tall trees in the deep wood and the ground was as hard as iron. Winters such as this were deemed as a bad omen, a sure sign that disaster lurked not far ahead. A bitter wind ruffled the land from the east with a miserable persistence that chilled a man to the bone. It was a winter in which many of the old of the tribe died and men built great fires to send them on their way to the gods Many prayers were offered to Anos, the god whose job it was to shepherd the dead to their final home. Many sacrifices of chickens and lambs were offered to Talvan, lord of all the gods, so places could be found for all our dead.

Towards the end of that long, hard winter my entire life was to change forever. I am old now and my bones creak when I move, but then I was a youth of seventeen summers and my spear arm was strong and fast. I could run like the wind and fight like the heroes of legend - or so I thought - but the inflated opinions of the young are often -as mine were - pounded into dust by what was to follow. We were the Cotti, a fierce and revered tribe; one of the five tribes that made up the Island of Sirrac. The Asshir, the Fellci, the Hamma and the Kallimi made up the rest. Our ancestors had settled this island so long ago that even the eldest of the tribes had not the faintest idea how distant that time was. I think perhaps it was a very long time in the past. Veddig, of the Hamma is very old, almost seventy five summers, some say, and he swears that in his youth his grandfather told him stories of the migration. Stories handed down from generation to generation, though no one, not even Veddig, can begin to guess when they began. What everybody knows, however, is the time when the Isscarans came.

It was long before I was born, and my father had been First Warrior to the old king. The very sea had been filled with ships, he had told me. The tribes had been given no warning that they were coming and a large portion of their army had landed before any resistance could be raised. The tribes had eventually gathered at Ossen Field, but it had taken three whole days, and by that time the Isscarans had taken a huge swathe of the land of the Asshir, and killed two hundred of their spears. Three thousand warriors marched to meet them on the forth day and the two armies clashed at Dun Carr, the last Asshir settlement that had not yet been overrun. My father took a wound but did not die. Yet still, to this day, he walks with a slight limp from an Isscaran sword that bit deep into his right leg. The tribes fought as they had always fought; a seething mass of bodies hurling themselves in one enormous tide of men to sweep the enemy from our lands. They were met by a solid wall of shields bristling with spears and short stabbing swords. The forerunners of the charging hoard threw themselves at the wall and died. More Isscarans marched from the flanks and swung towards the unprotected sides of our warriors. The battle, my father says, lasted less than an hour and the carnage was awful. Three kings were killed that day, as the field outside Dun Carr ran red with blood. The remaining two kings were taken prisoner. My father tells me that the Isscarans were a noble enemy, and at battle’s end, their physicians treated not only their own, but our tribesmen as well. That was how my father lived to tell of the terrible defeat. He would have surely bled to death if an Isscaran physician had not stitched his deep wound.

Now at seventeen summers I am to join the army of the conquerors. They took our land and left a large garrison, with a governor at Dun Gall, the largest settlement on the coast, and two legions of their soldiers to keep us subdued - though after Dun Carr, not many had the stomach for rebellion. Dun Gall is no longer a simple settlement, but a sprawling town, built with Isscaran stone, with a fort sporting high walls and towers. We pay them taxes, plus a tenth of our yearly harvest, and they leave us alone, except to dispense justice where they deem fit. We have no kings now; they will not allow it, but each of our settlements has a councilor, chosen by the Isscarans to represent his village. At the end of each moon cycle, or month as the Isscarans would now have us say, they are summoned to a meeting in Dun Gall.

I do not pretend to understand what goes on at these meetings, and in truth, I have not the slightest wish to do so. What I do know is that Isscara is now at war. Our councilor Brodig came back from the last meeting with the news that every village must yield five young men between seventeen and twenty summers to serve in the legion. I unhappily drew a short straw when, from the twenty five men of that age, the five were selected. My father protested, but Brodig waved away his complaint. The selection had been fair, he retorted. I should not be shown any favors, just because my father had once - and he spat that single word - been an important figure. Brodig was a lapdog who adored his new masters, but venerated his position even more. It gave him the chance to strut with an inflated sense of self-importance about the village, issuing orders and enforcing the tax laws. In the time before the Isscarans he would most likely have been dragged through the muddy village streets by horses to teach him more respect for his superiors. But now, sadly, he held the power and was not hesitant in using it.

Thus it was that on a cold winter’s day, I sat with four other young men of my village in a small hut and waited for the cart that would take us all to who knew what.

Mallic, a straw-haired boy, a few months older than me, looked dubiously at the hut door. His round face was scared by small red marks that showed he had suffered, as a child, from the illness known as the bane. He was fortunate, not for the fact that he was scarred, but for the fact he still lived. The bane was more often than not a killer, and it usually claimed three out of four victims. Do you think it’s true? he asked lamely, about the tings they say will happen to us?

He was referring to the rumors, most likely started by Brodig, if the truth were known, about the horrors inflicted on new recruits by the other men in the Isscaran legions. I looked into his pitted face and saw the nervousness in his green eyes. I wondered if the same trepidation was mirrored in my own. I smiled half-heartedly and shrugged my shoulders in answer to his question. I had no more of an idea about the stories than he did. If they were true, then all we could do was endure whatever happened, praying to the gods that it would not last long. I didn’t know what to expect, except that my life was never going to be the same again.

Rewan, who sat next to Mallic, looked across at me. He was nineteen summers and the gods had blessed him with a strong face, and square jaw. His raven black hair hung to his shoulders and he looked the part of a warrior even if he were yet to be proven one. Rewan was ever the favorite with the village girls. They would moon over him with big eyes and dote on his words. I hear that you can be flogged for not having a sharp spear point, or having dust on your chain coat, he said gravely, And if you run from the enemy, they hang you.

His words did little to cheer our already dark moods. We had all heard such stories and our futures seemed as bleak as the winter wind that whipped round the hut in which we sat. We were callow and untried young men, who perhaps wouldn’t see home again. We were about to be thrust into a war which had nothing to do with us, and it seemed to me that the gods were laughing at our unhappy lot.

We could run away! suggested Mallic, a sudden look of hope lighting his pock-marked face.

Avian laughed. He was the forth member of our doomed band - a tall youth with brown hair and freckles. He was the eldest, at twenty summers and had been listening to our conversation with some amusement. And where would we run to, Mallic? he demanded. The Deep Wood, maybe? I am sure the Isscarans would never dream of looking for us there. We could hide in the trees and live off of nuts and berries for the next thirty summers.

Mallic scowled and tried to defend his suggestion. There are other places, he muttered, looking at me for support. But I could not back him up, because I knew Avian was right. If we fled, they would catch us and we would dance our last jig at the end of an Isscaran rope. The bitterness of the situation washed over me. My anger stirred at life’s cruel tricks - tricks that could alter a man’s life so damnably as to never be the same again.

Avian seemed to relent of his mocking, and smiled at Mallic. It may not be as bad as they say it is, he said, trying to reassure the younger man. Gods! If we were to believe everything we heard, then for every bad deed we did as children, would we not have all been devoured by the Brochan by now?

The Brochan was a creature of legend. Said to gobble up naughty children and was often used by angry parents to frighten those who had misbehaved. It seemed a strange comparison to the Isscaran’s, but there was a parallel. Tales of the mythical monster instilled fear into the young, yet were unfounded. Could the tales of the Isscarian legions be yet another subtle ruse for a similar purpose?

Mallic looked at Avian and grinned despite his trepidation. I am more afraid of the Isscaran’s than the Brochan, he admitted, though ten years ago, it would have been the other way round.

Veall, the final conscript, a callow and awkward youth of eighteen summers, looked up. My Father knows a trader who deals with the Legion, he said softly. He has seen men flogged for petty offences and men hung and even worse.

Worse? echoed Mallic. What could be worse than hanging?

Having your eyes gouged out with hot brands, or your skin peeled from your flesh whilst you are still conscious, replied Veall coldly.

A shocked silence settled over the group, as Veall’s words sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. Could we discount these stories as mere rumor, I wondered? If Veall’s father truly knew a man who had witnessed such things first hand, then perhaps it was all true?

It was Rewan who broke the stunned silence. They need fighting men, he said with conviction. If they killed everyone they recruited, who would be left to fight for them?

There was solid logic behind those words and they broke the melancholy spell that Veall’s statement had invoked. Of course they needed men. We were to join an army and what use would blind skinless men be, in a battle? We were allowing our frightened imaginations to run wild, and believing the worst, before it even happened. We will just have to see that we do everything that is asked of us, I said resolutely. Then we may all live to come home after the war is over.

Avian laughed but without mirth. If our side wins, he added.

It was then that something struck me - something I had never thought about before. Who are they? I asked simply. Had any of us the slightest notion who we’d be fighting against? I received several blank stares in response. It was clear that no one knew.

Perhaps the Isscaran’s have decided to invade heaven and we are to fight the gods themselves? suggested Rewan half-heartedly.

Mallic glanced at the hut’s ceiling, a glint of fear in his eyes. Don’t jest about such things, he cautioned. They listen and have long memories.

Rewan smiled scornfully. But the smirk was forced and I could see he instantly regretted the unintended insult to the gods. A man about to face war would be a fool indeed to make an enemy of the deities, when his need of them was fast approaching.

Will it be warm, do you think? asked Avian, carefully changing the subject. Where we are going, I mean.

Depends on how far south it is, replied Mallic. If we go north, it will be even colder than here.

Colder than here? asked Avian disbelievingly. Is there such a place that is colder than here in the winter?

My father says if you go far enough north, you come to a land of ice that never thaws, all year round, returned Rewan.

Then I hope for all our sakes we go south, was Avian’s final comment on the matter.

Silence settled once more, each of us retreating into his own thoughts of what might, or might not happen over the next few days. I thought of my father and of the battle at Dun Carr. What would it be like, I wondered? Would I be afraid? How can a man predict how he’ll react? I had fought with other boys as was often the case in youth, but never with a sword or spear. My father had trained me with both weapons, but I’d never needed to use them on another living being. How would it feel to kill - to take another’s life? It was a question that I had no answer to, a question that would remain a mystery until the very moment I was forced to kill. Or be killed. That was a thought I did not wish to dwell upon.

Heavily shod hooves, clipping noisily on the frozen earth of the track outside, jerked us from our private reveries. Apprehension gripped me; an icy hand tight on my guts. It could mean only one thing. The cart had arrived to transport us to our new life...

I looked at the others and their eyes held the same trepidation that must be burning in my own. The sound of the horses’ hooves abruptly ceased, and the sudden silence filled the hut with the jagged air of impending doom.

Avian shot a look in my direction and glanced at the others. It’s time, he said simply. Those two words had such an impact upon me - like sentencing by a jury of elders - a punishment that would banish me from everything I had ever known, and hurl me into a world I neither knew nor understood.

The hut door flew open and the form of Brodig filled the space, partially blocking the light from the pale winter sun. He looked irritable, probably because he had been dragged away from the warm fire in his hut. We all rose, and without a word, filed out into the cold morning air. The small cart was drawn by two horses and the driver sat huddled in a thick cloak. He looked almost as miserable as Brodig. It was to be a two day journey, and we had been informed we were to spend one night at an Isscarian fort, about halfway between here and Dun Gall.

We had already said our farewells to friends and family as Brodig had insisted there was to be no gathering to see us off. I wondered if the others hated the belligerent, strutting little Isscarian puppet with the same ardent fervor that consumed me at that moment. If the enemy we were to face instilled the same feelings in me as Brodig managed to, then I doubted very much if I would have any trouble running them through with my sword. I was surprised to find the thought comforting. Perhaps it was simply that it offered a release from the stomach-churning fear that had seized my insides and was happily twisting them to the point where I felt physically sick.

The driver glanced at Brodig. Well? he snapped irritably.

Brodig indicated the rear of the cart with a wave of his hand. Get in! he ordered sharply.

The driver nodded and spoke again. You might enjoy standing about freezing your backside off in this backwater pigsty, but I don’t! he told Brodig. Then to us, Come on, you stupid bunch of sheep-lovers, I want to leave today if that’s all right with you?

I was the last to climb up and was only just inside when the cart began to roll. The Isscarans used carts mostly for transportation of goods and the cart we found ourselves in was no exception. There was nowhere to sit, except the floor. Every rut and pit in the track jarred muscle and bone alike. After only a few hours my body ached and my rear was numb. The cold bit into me and I was forced to rub my hands together and blow constantly on them. The others did the same. No one spoke and we suffered in silence.

A few hours into the nightmare journey, snow began falling; a light sprinkle at first, but then heavier flakes, until finally it was difficult just to make out the road ahead. The driver of the cart swore and cast a savage glance over his shoulder at us, as if somehow, it was our fault. I was too cold to care. My bones felt as though they might snap any moment and my blood, I was sure, had ceased to flow. We were all shivering and the sound of chattering teeth could not be muffled even by the clinging snow.

For another half hour the driver urged the horses on, but a savage wind had risen from the north-east and was blasting exposed skin. Even the driver with his heavy cloak and hood was beginning to show signs of severe discomfort.

The track could now only be judged by its lack of trees. The surface was covered in nine inches of snow. We need to find shelter! yelled the driver above the howling wind. It whipped his hood from side to side and stung bare skin like a swarm of angry insects. I was convinced we were all about to die there. The horses could hardly make any headway and the cold was seeping into our bodies, turning the flesh blue. I began to feel tired. All I wanted to do was sleep, just lie down and surrender. In fact I was almost unconscious when the driver and Avian pulled my torpid body from the cart and dragged it to the barn. The temperature inside the wooden building was not much better than outside, but the driver had managed to start a small fire on the earth floor and after a while, once out of the driving and bitter wind and snow, I was able to wake myself up and stamp and rub some life back into my fading body.

The others, I saw, were doing the same. Outside, the blizzard raged and the wood of the old barn creaked and groaned as the wind whistled through gaps and the snow piled up relentlessly against the front and one side. The driver had unhitched the horses and they now stood just inside the doors, seemingly happy to be out of the storm.

Didn’t bargain for this, stated the driver, beating his arms in an effort to restore normal blood flow. Poxy arse-end of the world! Wouldn’t live here, if you paid me to.

Then why did you come here? snapped Mallic resenting the way the driver spoke. Perhaps under less uncomfortable circumstances the remark would have passed unchallenged, but we were all approaching our limits. There had been little sleep for any of us the previous night, and no one had relished the idea of breakfast this morning. We were tired, hungry, afraid and now cold to the bone. It was little wonder that one of us would react badly to the slur on our homeland.

Watch your mouth boy! warned the driver. I get paid for deliverin’ sprats to the army. So long as you can walk and ‘old a sword, they ain’t particular. So mind your lip or I’ll split it for yer!

Mallic clenched his fist and for a moment I believed he was about to strike the driver. The look of sheer resentment that crossed his face was blatant in its hostility. For a few seconds I was unsure of what was about to happen, but then the moment passed. Arvin moved swiftly and placed himself between Mallic and the object of his temper. It was not to be the last time Arvin’s quick thinking interceded on behalf of one of us either.

I watched as the driver lowered his hand from the hilt of the knife he wore in his belt. He too had seen Mallic clench his fist and had drawn his own conclusions. I realized for the first time then, how easy it would be to get one’s self killed over a stupid remark. This was no longer the village we had grown up in. There were no rules to keep men in check here. A fight could just as easily end in a dying man lying in a pool of his own blood.

The driver moved to the small fire and thrust his hands towards the meager flames. Arvin gave Mallic an almost imperceptible shake of his head and I saw the glint of a warning that lay behind the look. Mallic seemed to relax and the danger was passed for now. I began to realize that we all had much to learn about the new world we were about to be introduced to. There were fights in the village and disputes, but they were settled with fists and should someone use a weapon they would be severely punished. But this was not the village, nor any village of our tribe. The driver was a foreigner, employed by the Isscaran army to haul goods. And that’s what we were, simple goods to be delivered to a destination.

The storm lasted another two hours and finally blew itself out. The land outside the old barn had become a white wilderness, a desolate colorless expanse that offered no comfort. The cart was half buried and it took three of us to force open the barn doors that had become stuck with the weight of drifted snow piled up against them.

The driver studied the terrain with a doubtful look. Goin’ to slow us down, he remarked sourly. Could be dark by the time we reach the fort. Best get the cart cleared and the horses hitched.

Half an hour later we were making slow progress through the deep snow. A watery, weak sun followed our progress as it too slowly moved towards the rim of the world. Heavy banks of grey and snow-laden clouds pushed northwards, carrying the storm further away. Above us, the grey was flecked with white and tiny patches of blue could be glimpsed now and then. To say the journey was miserable would have been understating the truth. We were all cold, hungry, tired and bruised. The last dwindling rays of feeble sunlight faded with an almost pitiful struggle. A dark curtain stretched across the horizon turning grey clouds to black, merging them to an invisible blur as night fell with resolute certainty.

We were lucky that night. Had the fort been a few miles further away, we would most likely have all frozen to death on that inhospitable night. The temperature dropped like a stone as the unseen clouds parted to reveal a crisp starlit sky. I could feel the frost start to form on my hair and clothes. Any moisture was swiftly turning to ice and I felt a terrible numbing sensation claim my feet and hands. I curled into a ball on the floor of the cart, willing myself to stay awake, to stay alive. My world slipped silently into a dark misty pit, devoid of warmth of any kind. I truly believed I would never again be warm.

I felt the hands grab me and a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders. Something bitter that tasted like fire was forced through my chapped lips and exploded like a thousand daggers in my throat. And then I was inside, and a blazing fire was before me. At first I thought it to be an illusion, a trick my dying mind was playing on me, as I could not feel any warmth. But then, slowly, feeling began to return. I began to shiver uncontrollably and my arms and legs began to sting as though I had plunged them into a bed of nettles. Someone pressed a hot drink into my reviving hands and for a moment I just clasped it tight.

Drink, urged an unfamiliar voice.

I heeded the advice and lifted the cup. I gratefully drank the hot infusion of slightly sweetened herbs. I could feel the fire now and the shivering was subsiding. Inch by inch, my limbs and body were beginning to respond to the warmth. My blood started to flow to areas where before it had almost ceased, and I realized just how close I had been to death.

The voice was speaking again, but this time not to me. I managed to turn my head to see a short, stocky man in a heavy woven tunic berating the driver, who had shed his cloak and was now crouched close to the fire. Another fifteen minutes and you would have been hauling a cart full of corpses’ man! snapped the owner of the voice. Why didn’t you try and find shelter for the night?

The driver looked up irritably. I got ‘em ‘ere, didn’t I? he answered defensively.

The man, whom I was later to discover, was a surgeon, spat contemptuously into the blaze. For your information Lasig, that first one out of the cart is going to lose his right foot. Nothing I can do to save it. The frost has taken it, and if I don’t remove it soon, he will lose the leg.

Lasig scowled. That means he’ll ‘ave to go back, I’ll lose me commission on ‘im.

In that moment, if I had a sword in my hand, I would have run Lasig clean through his contemptible guts. I was also stunned to hear that one of us was to lose a foot. Who? I wondered. My senses were beginning to return. I looked towards the man who had spoken to me. Where are my friends? I asked.

The surgeon turned his back on the driver and focused his attention on me. I had them taken to the infirmary, he answered, taking a step closer. You were lucky. Your back was against the rear of the cart and you were somewhat protected from the cold by the bodies of the others. They will live, but one will not be fit enough to continue. My name is Drasen. I’m the fort surgeon.

I looked up at the pale blue eyes and saw compassion there. Who is going back?

The lad with the bane scars, answered Drasen. His right foot will have to come off, if he is to live.

The words seemed to register in my mind for the first time. I found it hard to grasp the fact that Mallic would be crippled and we had not been gone from the village a full day yet. I looked at the surgeon. Thank you for tending me, I managed through my shock. I did not wish the man to think me ungrateful.

The man shook his head and sighed. Don’t thank me yet, boy, he replied sadly. In a month or so, you’ll be cursing me for not letting you die peacefully in the back of that cart.

In the coming days those words were going to haunt me and eventually I would come to understand just what he had meant. I felt my eyes grow heavy and a deep yawn escaped my lips.